Spark
by A Ghost Who Walks
Summary: A complete rewrite of the Cycle, with quite a bit of twisting and warping of the original. Will likely contain more Arya and Murtagh perspectives and points of view. Rated T for light violence and implied content, though not much. Pairings are undecided.
1. Chapter 1

Arya shivered slightly as a chill wind hissed through the branches overhead, the foliage bare from the approach of winter. She pulled her grey cloak a bit more tightly about herself, jerking the hood up. Ahead of her, she could see the hard lines of Fäolin's frame through his tunic, his body tense and his movements jerky. Though she couldn't see his face, she could imagine it; hard, stiff, mouth in a line from anger. His eyes would be flinty slits, brows drawn low – ai, even when she was upset with him, her heart did a joyful little skip.

And that was the root of the problem.

Arya had loved Fäolin since she was a callow young student and he the wise mentor, since she was the over-eager youngling and he the contemplative elder, since she was the warrior and he the scholar. And he had loved her, as well…just not in the way for which she had hoped. Fäolin loved her as a father might, not as she did…Arya loved him as a lover, and her feelings had finally made themselves unbearable.

The normally staid she-elf felt a flush begin at her neck, working slowly upwards to dye her cheeks a frosty pink. She had come to Fäolin, crimson and tongue-tied, to confess her already-apparent feelings and rush into his arms, to relax into his strong embrace.

She had left in a rare temper, tears stinging her eyes and words of spite still leaving her lips. Fäolin had even lost his temper after her rant was fully underway, both of them angry and furious with the other. Poor Glenwing had fluttered around the two of them, stepping as carefully as a cat among eggshells. He had stammered a few pacifying words, only to falter when he was met with stony silence and hard words.

Now the three of them rode on in silence, not companionable, comfortable silence, but thick, choking silence.

"Shall Glenwing take the lead?" Fäolin asked, voice hard and cold, ice on a winter's morn.

Arya nodded stiffly. "Aye," she said. Even to her, she sounded hostile.

Glenwing looked at the two of them nervously, brushing his silvery hair from his eyes. "So…shall we stop for the night?" He caressed his horse's neck. "See, Himinn grows skittish. She senses something, this I can feel. The wildlife is also disturbed, and –"

"We shall stop when our _Dröttningu_ is weary," Fäolin said, the barest hint of a challenge in his tone, along with emphasis on her hated title.

Arya bridled under that, as could be expected from a youngling, but not one of her station. _Really, Arya, really? Grow up_. "I am not wearied; I say we keep going."

Glenwing's expression clearly shows his doubt and foreboding, but, well, this is Glenwing. Polite, soft-spoken Glenwing, never harsh, never uncouth, never cruel. He wouldn't dream of defying his princess or his friend.

"Nen ono weohnata, Arya Dröttningu," he said, mannerly as always. He steered his horse past them, settling up front, though his hand touched his dagger.

Sighing wearily, for she was more tired than she would ever admit, Arya checked the bag that held it. She let her hand slip inside, slender fingers roving the silky, cool surface. Her elven vision could see the blue tones of the egg, even in the partial darkness, though the usually brilliant colouring was muted in the low light. Still, it was stunning, as always, and Arya felt that strange little ache, that longing. She had carried this egg so long, spoke to her, warmed her with the heat of her body, yet the egg remained unmoved.

Wonderful. Rejected by both and egg and a man.

Arya sighed again, shoulders slumping. Behind her, she heard Fäolin clear his throat.

"Dröttningu, I-"

Glenwing suddenly swore, something that he has never done before. "Fjandinn!" he ejaculated, his horse rearing and giving a sharp whinny. Her own horse's muscles bunched under her thighs, and the beast's ears flicked back and forth, a sharp tang of fear emanating from him.

"Audhvelt, sætur einn, audhvelt Róa thungur hjarta thínu," Fäolin murmured, trying in vain to steady his mount, but Glenwing was silent, then cried, "Urgals!"

"Rídha!" Arya hissed, drawing her blade. "Quickly, we must-"

Fäolin's sword was out, and he suddenly sliced her horse deeply across the flank. "Gánga, gánga. Færa, skepna!"

Shrieking in pain, her horse bolted, leaving the others behind. But she heard, oh gods, she heard. Arrows flew through the air, and...

"Dammit!" she cried, her horse giving a scream of a whinny as a ball of fire ploughed into him, the animal toppling and sliding over the damp earth. Arya jumped from his back, stumbling and landing a bit awkwardly, but keeping her feet. "Fäolin, Glenwing?"

Glenwing had an arrow through the gut, and was lying face-down in the dirt, silver hair matted with blood from a gash, the beginnings of which she could see in his forehead. A muffled sob escaped her, and her hand flew to her mouth, bile coming sour and sharp. "F-fäolin?" she quavered, "I-ah!"

Slumping to the ground, she looked blearily up at the tall urgal that so dwarfed her. In his hand he held a rock, a rounded river rock, she noted weakly, some inner remnants of logic connecting the pain in her head to the rock.

The urgal looked at her with an odd mixture of disdain and curiosity, and he prodded her with a foot. One of his companions laughed, saying something in his own language to the urgal who had brought her down, causing him to scowl and kick her. Arya gasped, a yelp escaping her lips.

"My, so the elves really are as _pathetic_ as our good king rants," said a silky voice. Arya looked up, slowly meeting the crimson gaze of a Shade. "Well? No idealistic ramblings? Really, now? Wonderful, it seems that you've realised the _futility_ of it all. Right?"

Arya said nothing, merely studying the Shade.

The Shade grinned, sharp teeth seeming to gleam slightly. "Of course you've heard of _me_, elf...I am Durza. No further explanation or introduction is needed, I see. The hatred in those charming eyes of yours tells all."

Slowly and deliberately, Arya spat at the Shade's feet. To her great irritation, he didn't appear at all angry, even laughing a bit.

"At last, some hatred. How _thrilling_!" he cried, clapping his hands like a child. "In return for that, o beautiful one, I have a gift for you." He tossed Fäolin's head at her feet. It rolled crookedly across the ground before settling pathetically at her knees, blue eyes empty, staring, and absolutely lifeless. Not a twinkle, not a spark, not even icy anger.

But Arya didn't cry. She couldn't. Nothing would come. Her throat ached and her eyes stung, but the tears wouldn't come.

Durza smiled. "Peradventure 'gift' was the wrong word...a trade, lily of the valley. The head for the egg, and a quick death as well."

She almost laughed. He knew that she didn't have a choice, and her hands were unresisting as an urgal took the egg and handed it to the Shade. He inspected it carelessly, the air somewhat affected, as his hands trembled with relief. "Such an easy, easy task...oh, gods-in-which-I-don't-believe, my thanks belongs to you. Of course, some of it had to do with you, elfling," Durza sneered. "Honestly, what were those rebels thinking, sending their one hope out in the big, bad woods with only three prissy elves to protect it? No wonder they're doomed. Such poor foresight, really. And you! Girl, I expected a fight, and what did I get? Big, staring eyes. Oooh, I tremble!" He laughed. "But in all seriousness, if these are the elves that the foolish mortals so fear, why, then, I spit on them. The fools, the sorry, sorry fools. And was this your love?"

Glassy, staring eyes were his only response.

Durza laughed again. "I thought so...his mind hinted. So easy to break, he was. Under a minute. And you know what else, elf?" Durza leaned closer, as if about to whisper a great secret. Then he laughed loudly. "He died for nothing! Nothing at all! You will die for nothing...this prodigal child, here, shall go back to her rightful place, find her chosen...and you can watch from the Void, knowing that the misery of tens of thousands is due to you! You, elf!"

A roaring was in Arya's ears, and she felt ill. He was right. She had failed,neglected her duty because of mere _feelings_. And here she was, grieving, for something sacrificed in vain. Her legs bunched beneath her, though she made no move.

"You failed, elfy. You failed. Your kind always do, you know, and you, you! Fäolin's memories amused me...such a stupid little child, you were. Your mother was disappointed in you, she told Fäolin. And now look, look. This egg, soon to be once more the king's. Doesn't that make you feel positively wretched? You allowed your feelings to get in the way of the egg's welfare. You failed in your duty. How does that feel, elf? Knowing that you-"

Arya sprang, arms outstretched. By some miracle of fate, her fingertips brushed the egg, knocking it to the ground. She clutched it to her chest, breaking into a run, whimpering from the pain of her broken ribs. Behind her, she heard the crashing of feet and Durza's commands, but the elf paid them no mind. Halting, chest heaving, she began to whisper the spell, knowing that it could be fatal. But she didn't care. She wouldn't fail, no, not again. Never again.

The elvish streamed out of her mouth, quick and fluid. She couldn't fail, no...a scream tore from her lips as an urgal grasped her by the hair, trying to haul her off, while another pulled at the egg.

"Samgöngur!" she finished. There was a brilliant, blinding flash of emerald light, and Arya's vision flickered and darkened, but she didn't lose consciousness. She pushed herself to her hands and knees, only to have Durza yank back her head, running a claw along her throat. His maroon eyes were blazing, and his teeth were bared.

"Bitch," he snarled. "You..." He descended into a tongue she didn't know, though the look on his face hinted that the words were not complimentary. Arya smiled weakly.

"You failed, Shade," she said, a bit of mocking in her voice. "Failed. What will the king say? What will he-"

The minutes-or hours-after that were a blur of pain, of breaking bones, of sweat, blood, vomit. Arya's screams and cries rent the night, but she regretted nothing. If anything, even as Durza was binding her and placing her ahead of him on the saddle, a small, contented smile flitted over her face.

She had done her duty.

**So, my latest spawn. I know I have other stories that upon which I could (and should) be working, but this idea was calling me with a siren's cry. It's probably crap, but hey, can I hazard some feedback? **

**By the way...as this is a rewrite of the Cycle, be prepared for some pretty wacky things. **

**As Paolini did not include every last word in elvish, I was obligated to seek online help, via Google Translate. I used Icelandic. **

**Dröttningu - Princess, or something fairly close**

**Nen ono weohnata, Arya Dröttningu - As you will, Princess Arya**

**Fjandinn - Damn**

**Audhvelt, sætur einn, audhvelt. Róa thungur hjarta thínu - Easy, sweet one, easy. Calm your pounding heart. **

**Rídha - Essentially? The 'f' word**

**Gánga, gánga. Færa, skepna! - Go, go. Move, beast!**

**Samgöngur - Transport**

**So. Tell me what you think, honestly. It his was a bit rushed, I think, but I wanted to get it up so I could see whether to continue it or let it rot in my hard drive. **

**-Ghostie**


	2. Chapter 2

The dark-haired human drew his red blade with a flourish, eying his opponent calculatingly. Formora was a good swordsman, probably the one of the best in Vroengard, and right now, she was looking him up and down with a rather bored expression. Morzan knew she was good-he had fallen to her blade many a time-but the boredom was entirely unnecessary, he groused to Shiv, who gave the mental equivalent of a yawn and went back to her dreams of a golden dragon.

Formora was looking a bit impatient now, and Morzan knew that if he wanted to fight, then he-

Formora dove for his ankles, amber-gold sword hissing through the air. It was only by jumping back that Morzan missed being knocked over, and he growled under his breath, parrying her next stroke, trying to force her arm aside. Her eyes were emotionless, showing none of the passion Morzan equated with fighting, and he couldn't help but think how bloody unnatural, how...elvish it was. Of course it was elvish; after all, Formora was an elf.

Morzan felt a bit of grim satisfaction as he forced the elf back a couple of steps, and she was forced to duck as Za'roc came at her collarbone. Formora's angled eyes narrowed, and she pushed with her sword against Za'roc, and this time, it was Morzan's turn to step back. He kicked at Formora's ankles, the elf nimbly dancing away, a bit of mocking in her face as she did so. That maddened Morzan; elves usually had that effect in them. Gods, but they were cold, cold and hard. It wasn't natural.

He grabbed at Formora as she darted near him, trying to pin her arms. For a moment, it seemed that he would succeed, but she spun around, and elbowed his jaw...hard. Really hard, in fact. Morzan staggered back, feeling like all the blood in his face was rushing to his aching jaw, the better to give it that lovely violet colour that suited him so well. Formora whacked him across the ribs with the flat of her blade, then kicked his shins. Morzan gasped, then yelped as she kneed him in the back, bringing him to his knees. He scrabbled about in the dust for a moment, then saw stars as she bashed his temple with the pommel of her sword. Before he slipped into darkness, he heard Shiv's furious roar, along with the draconic equivalent of swearing, but gods, his head ached, and sleep sounded so good...

~A Century Or So Later~

Morzan lounged back on Shiv's neck, the blood-red dragoness purring a bit, nuzzling his cheek. He grinned sleepily, rubbing the smooth, small scales just above her nostrils.

_Stop_, Shiv said, raising her head out of his reach. _That tickles, and remember what happens when I sneeze?_

Morzan chuckled, patting her chest instead. "How could I forget, you idiot?" he said, but his tone was nothing but loving. His bond mock-snarled, baring straight white teeth.

_Bit rich coming from you, love_, she snapped, though the tone was nothing but jest. _I believe the humans call that hypocrisy._

"Aww, stop with the big words, dearest, you know that they confuse me!" Morzan whined. "For you know, I am but I simple urchin who struck it lucky, and my mind is not as sharp as it could be."

Shiv nodded. _How lucky you are, being blessed with such a mighty dragoness such as I,_ she said, then licked his cheek again. _Leave the thinking to me, stone-head._

"The gods have indeed been generous. How could one such as I, a mere worm in the dust, have been blessed with such a wise, beautiful, intelligent, strong, awesome dragon?" Morzan teased, putting effort into making his words sound extravagantly elegant, failing to do so.

Shiv gave a rumbling chuckle. _Do not the gods move in ways beyond our ken? _she asked.

Morzan shrugged a shoulder, pushing himself to his feet.

_Where are you going?_ Shiv asked, a bit of anxiousness seeping into her tone.

"You know that the king called me into the throne room. I would've stayed back in 'Leona, otherwise," Morzan told her. "Those damned nobles look down from their noses at me."

_Stay with me, then, _Shiv pleaded._ I'll eat whoever mocks you._

Morzan rubbed her nose. "Don't tempt me, 'kay? You know I'd stay her if I could."

Shiv sighed. _If you must._ She flopped to the ground, sighing again.

"Hey, now," Morzan said. "You know that I'll come back. Why're you so balky at letting me go into 'Baen? You fussed all the way here."

_I...I...I fear for you. I love my urchin._

"And I'll stay your urchin."

_He'll change you._

Morzan sighed. "We've had this conversation near every day for the past century, and it always ends with you trying to torch me. Shiv, I'm not going to change."

_But you will._

"Shiv..." Morzan strode over, and looked his dragon in her eyes. "I'd cup your head in my hands, but I've not been able to do that for years," he said, lamely trying to make her laugh. He smiled a bit awkwardly. "Look at me...look at me, love. There, that's better. Shiv, I'm not going to change. I'm not going to turn on you. I'll never abandon you, never curse you. I. Am. Yours. Look at me, now. Do you trust me?"

The dragoness shuffled her claws feet, then said, in a small voice, _Yes._

Morzan grinned. "Good, then I can go without fear of your flames singeing my rear?"

_I suppose_, Shiv said, smiling weakly and blowing a thin jet of smoke. _I_ _just...worry. You're..._

But Morzan had already left.

**Um...hi. Sorry for the long absence; my life got really crazy. And, you know, effort. I'm a lazy git. And sorry for such a filler-ish chapter...I've several things to tell/ask you all. **

**Firstly, yes, the Forsworn are alive in this one. And I'm entirely disregarding Du Namar Aurboda (The Banishing of the Names). It just seems so unrealistic and impossible...and I didn't want to have to go through the struggle of writing for someone who can hardly have even pronouns applied to them. So, thoughts?**

**There's going to be a whole lot of canon-effing, and you guys will either love me or want to eviscerate me, slowly and with a spork. **

**Secondly, I'm at loss as to where to go with this. I'm seriously considering giving Saphira to Murtagh, and otherwise mixing up the Rider/dragon pairs. May I have your thoughts? I'll be posting a poll on my profile that I'd appreciate you voting on, if it pleases you. **


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